


the true art of letter-writing

by rain_sleet_snow



Category: AUSTEN Jane - Works, Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chance Meetings, F/M, Family Dynamics, Letters, Meet-Cute, Pre-Het
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 08:35:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18384824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_sleet_snow/pseuds/rain_sleet_snow
Summary: Some time after Darcy's disastrous, never-repeated proposal at Rosings, Elizabeth (avoiding writing letters to deal with Lydia's nonsense) and Colonel Fitzwilliam (avoiding his family, his club, and all of fashionable London due to Lady Catherine's nonsense) bump into each other in Charles Bingley's library.





	the true art of letter-writing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AMarguerite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMarguerite/gifts).



> Thank you to cosmonauthill for looking at this!

_I have now attained **the true art of letter-writing,** which we are always told, is to express on paper exactly what one would say to the same person by word of mouth. - Austen _

 

The late Mr Bingley might have left it to Charles to purchase an estate - though Elizabeth had severe doubts as to whether Charles ever would - but he had had a house in London already. Now, many years after its initial purchase, it had the warm feel of a house that had known happiness. Elizabeth would have liked it even if it were not Jane’s home; it felt friendly.

 

Or perhaps it was just that Caroline Bingley had accompanied Mrs Hurst to Tunbridge Wells yesterday - an unfashionable choice of watering-place, but Elizabeth had been given to understand that Mrs Hurst pinned her hopes of a child on the spa-bathing there - and the contrast made everything seem calmer. Miss Bingley had grown accustomed to Jane’s presence, and even seemed fond of her, but her aversion to Elizabeth had not lessened. Even without Mr Darcy to perform for, she seemed to feel the need to score points against Elizabeth, and Elizabeth too frequently responded in kind.

 

Elizabeth wandered the corridors of the Bingleys’ house, glancing out of windows and admiring schoolgirl watercolours, proudly framed by Charles’ parents. The house had been recently redecorated, and the fashionable decor did not harmonise well with the watercolours, but they had not been moved. Elizabeth wondered who had insisted that they remain, and why. Jane didn’t know, and Miss Bingley hadn’t said anything about them.

 

Miss Bingley _had_ made a special point of showing Elizabeth the handsome pastel portrait of Jane and Charles by Georgiana Darcy, while waxing lyrical about Georgiana’s accomplishments, as if they had stepped back two years to the drawing room at Netherfield. Elizabeth had been happy to tell Miss Bingley of her flourishing correspondence with Miss Darcy, which had produced an entertaining degree of spiteful but ladylike shock. Miss Bingley had clearly had no idea that Elizabeth was on friendly terms with the girl.

 

Young lady, Elizabeth should say; Georgiana was seventeen now, and although her letters had at first been very shy, she had grown more confident in writing of her days and sharing her opinions of the books they both read. Elizabeth didn’t know why Mr Darcy encouraged Georgiana to correspond with her - perhaps it had to do with brotherly attempts to bring Georgiana out of her shell - but her letters were a pleasure. In fact, her latest was the only one of the several letters lurking within Elizabeth’s lap-desk that Elizabeth had been happy to receive.

 

Elizabeth let herself into the Bingleys’ library, and shut the door behind her. She leaned against it and closed her eyes long enough to let a sigh escape.

 

Jane, being Jane, was upstairs in her sunny sitting room diligently answering letters from a hysterical Mrs Bennet and a petulant Lydia. Neither was wholly comprehensible - Mrs Bennet’s because her self-consciously elaborate hand had disintegrated into furious crossings and spatterings that rendered an incoherent narrative almost illegible, and Lydia’s because it was all self-important allusions and complaints, none of which seemed to lead anywhere in particular, but all of which added up to a strong sense of ill-usage and some kind of secret. Jane and Elizabeth had puzzled over both together, and while Jane had not been able to reconstruct the minutiae her mother’s grievance and Elizabeth had struggled with Mrs Bennet’s spelling, neither of them could make anything at all of Lydia’s cryptic allusions to _Certain Events_ or to  Friends You Do Not Know . Elizabeth was not sure she wanted to know what Lydia meant, which was why she was in the quiet, soothing library, instead of in Jane’s sitting room, trying to answer letters she knew were related to the problem. The flimsiest novel would be far preferable to composing a tactful, meaningful response to the effusions awaiting her.

 

So far as Jane and Elizabeth had been able to determine, the essential problem was that Mrs Bennet wanted to go to Newcastle to see Lydia. This was a quarrel Elizabeth was familiar with: it had been brewing when she left Longbourn. However, Mrs Bennet since had discovered a powerful desire to take Kitty with her, and there Mr Bennet and Mary objected. Kitty herself also had doubts, but her closeness to Lydia was not just the product of proximity. Her letter was somewhat more equivocal, and included dramatic references to abandonment and sisterly guilt, along with an awareness that Lydia’s conduct had led Kitty toward paths she was lucky not to have trodden.  

 

The entire situation gave Elizabeth a headache. She had considered pretending that all three letters had been lost in the post, but since Mr Bennet would never believe her and Kitty would be hurt, a brief pause before replying was probably all she could manage.

 

The library was not extensive, but it was well supplied with novels, since all members of the household enjoyed them. (There was a shelf of serious books which Charles appeared to have purchased out of some notion that he ought to enjoy them and have serious opinions about them, but Elizabeth did not think he had picked any of them up more than once or twice.) Elizabeth strolled from shelf to shelf, pulling down the occasional volume and flicking through it; happily occupied, she didn’t realise there was another person in the room until that other person knocked something heavy off a table and said very distinctly:  
  
“Damnation!”

 

Elizabeth dropped the latest book out of sheer surprise, and was very startled to step out from behind a shelf and find Colonel Fitzwilliam, sitting at the desk Charles usually used and lifting an atlas from the floor.

 

“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she said, stammering slightly. “I beg your pardon, I did not know you were here.”

 

“Miss Bennet,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, unaccountably red-faced. He leaped to his feet and bowed appropriately; a sheet of heavily crossed paper fluttered to the ground. “I beg your pardon for my language. I don’t know why it is that desks, no matter what size they are, must always be half the size you need them to be.”  


Elizabeth greeted this gallant attempt at a witticism with a smile. “Miss Darcy told me in her latest letter she expected to meet you in London, but I do not think she and her brother will be here for some days yet.”

 

She picked her book up, and carefully did not add _And what are you doing here in any case?_  She knew that Colonel Fitzwilliam knew Charles, in the same way that any relation of Mr Darcy’s knew Charles, simply because Mr Darcy refused to be parted from the few friends in whose society he felt comfortable. But she did not think they were more than acquaintances.

 

“No, Darcy and Georgiana are not yet arrived. I do not expect them for another week.” Colonel Fitzwilliam had replaced the atlas on the desk, and was now fidgeting with his pen. “Otherwise I should be at Darcy House at present - but your brother-in-law has been good enough to offer me a, er, temporary refuge.”

  
  
He seemed more flustered than strictly necessary for a man doing nothing more incriminating than, apparently, writing letters, and his eyes lingered on Elizabeth in a way that reminded her of their easy camaraderie at Rosings, before Mr Darcy’s disastrous proposal. Though very embarrassed, he seemed pleased to see her.

 

“Nothing more dangerous than the French, I hope,” Elizabeth said cheerfully, wondering why Colonel Fitzwilliam was not at this very moment facing the French. He did not look injured.

 

“Well, the Army has postponed the problem of the French by going into winter quarters,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, with an entertaining irony, “but you are familiar with my aunt, and you will appreciate that not even the Lines of Torres Vedras could prevent Lady Catherine de Bourgh from making her presence felt.”

 

Elizabeth blinked, and retrieved her own book from the floor to cover her confusion. “Lady Catherine is in London?”

 

“She appears to have made the journey from Kent specifically to quarrel with Darcy,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said ruefully, “but as Darcy is not here, she has settled for quarreling with everyone else instead.” He gestured at the desk, realised it had fallen, and swooped on it. His ears had turned red with embarrassment. “I am writing to my sister to suggest that she delays her journey from Scotland. The combination of Honoria and Lady Catherine is not an easy one at the best of times, but Lady Catherine is not exactly exerting herself to please at present. And Honoria has already written to me taking Darcy’s part in very strong terms.”

 

“Ah,” Elizabeth said, mentally counting her blessings. Her aunts might be interfering, on occasion - though at least her Aunt Gardiner had her best interests at heart - but they were not Lady Catherine de Bourgh. “I thought Lady Catherine was very fond of Darcy.”

 

“If you remember my cousin Anne…” Colonel Fitzwilliam trailed off politely.

 

“Oh,” Elizabeth said, as inspiration struck. She did indeed recall Anne - pale, sickly and near-silent - and she also recalled that there was supposed to be some family arrangement between her and Mr Darcy. Although the fact that Mr Darcy had proposed to Elizabeth herself argued otherwise. “Oh, I see - Mr Darcy and Miss de Bourgh have decided they will not suit?”

 

“Indeed, Miss Bennet. Thanks to Lady Catherine, there is absolutely no other subject to be had in Matlock House, and thanks to my brother’s complaints to his friends, the matter is also fairly well known _outside_ Matlock House. Mr Bingley’s library turns out to be the only place in London where I need not answer impertinent questions.”

 

“How unpleasant,” Elizabeth said. Colonel Fitzwilliam looked hunted at the very thought.

 

“It will be harder on Darcy, when he arrives.”

 

Elizabeth thought this through and winced involuntarily. “He is such a very reserved man - he will be miserable.”

 

“My sainted aunt considers it his just desserts.”

 

Elizabeth contemplated this for a moment. She was never sure exactly where she stood with regards to Mr Darcy, though they had of necessity been much in company. He had become very stiff and uncomfortable again after Lydia’s hideous escapade. In truth, Elizabeth had expected nothing less, considering her newfound family connection to Wickham. She might have wished otherwise, considering how well she had learned to like him, but she could not change what had come to pass. Time had led her to conclude that - even if you set Mr Wickham aside, which was difficult - whatever emotions had impelled Darcy to make that disastrous confession at Rosings, they no longer persisted. What remained was a great deal of awkwardness, a sincere interest in Elizabeth’s opinions, and enough respect for her to encourage his sister to write to her. Elizabeth had learned to value that at its true worth over the last year or so, and no longer wasted her time on vain wishes that Mr Darcy would renew his addresses. If he wanted to do so, he could have done so by now, very easily: and Elizabeth had no intention of breaking her heart over something that would never come to pass.

 

Still, however unpleasant his behaviour towards her had once been, and even if he remained as uncomfortable as a soaked cat in her presence, he certainly did not deserve either to marry a lady he could not like or to be assailed by Lady Catherine de Bourgh for this decision. Especially in a fashion calculated to send him straight back to Derbyshire in a state of mortified fury.

 

Elizabeth realised she had been silent too long, and hurried to say something - anything. “I don’t know if it is any consolation, but I too am called upon to play peacemaker in a family disagreement, and I am very ill-suited to the role.”

 

“Not so ill-suited as a soldier,” Colonel Fitzwilliam suggested, smiling; she had forgotten that he had such a very charming smile.

 

“At least a soldier has other courses of action open to him when peaceful negotiation fails,” Elizabeth pointed out. “I can hardly order a siege of… of my sister’s wardrobe, say, to secure her compliance.”

 

“Ah, but would you be willing to ransom a bonnet?” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, entering into the spirit of the discussion with determined merriment. “Or would a favourite pair of dancing slippers fetch a better price?”

 

“I fear we shall never find out, as I am currently avoiding writing the merest note to my father to resolve the matter,” Elizabeth sighed. “On that head, you are more dutiful than I.”

 

“Or perhaps less wise,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said gallantly. “There is at least an even chance that my letter will irritate Honoria to the point that she joins battle with Lady Catherine in person, rather than by letter.”

 

“A problem easily solved,” Elizabeth said. “Lock up your pistols and hide your fencing foils.”

  
  
Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed, and seemed about to say something witty, but then the clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour, and he started in sudden awareness and seized his letter from the table.

  
“I beg your pardon, Miss Bennet, I must be going - but I shall hope to see you again soon. Are you in London for a long visit?”

  
  
Elizabeth nodded, the same small piece of her that liked Colonel Fitzwilliam’s smile so much unfurling a few bright leaves. “Jane has invited me to stay as long as I would like - a dangerous invitation, for she and my brother-in-law are such good hosts I may never be persuaded to leave.”

 

Colonel Fitzwilliam grinned. “Then I will hope to see you often, for I know that Darcy and your brother-in-law are frequently in company. Until next time, Miss Bennet.”

 

He sketched a bow and hastened out. Elizabeth looked after him as the library door closed abruptly behind him, and then looked down at the book still in her hand without really seeing it. She ran a finger over the clothbound cover, and raised her head to stare at the wall ahead of her.

 

Colonel Fitzwilliam wasn’t a handsome man, she thought, but she had not often seen a face so pleasing. Perhaps it was his warm and open manners that made it so, or perhaps his wit lent a brightness to his eyes that would not otherwise have been there.

 

She reshelved the book in quite the wrong place, but neither Jane nor Charles was likely ever to notice.

  


After some time, Elizabeth made her way thoughtfully back up to Jane’s sitting room, where Jane had given up on her letters and was lying on the sopha with a soothing cool cloth over her eyes. Elizabeth did not have the book she had gone downstairs to get, and she seemed distracted.

 

“Lizzy?” Jane asked, sitting up a little and removing the cloth from her eyes.

 

“Hmm?” Elizabeth answered, drawing her paper towards her and mending her pen.

 

“This business with Lydia cannot have upset you so much, can it?”

 

“Lydia?” Elizabeth said, with palpable surprise. “Oh, no.”  


“Hmm,” Jane said, and wondered.


End file.
